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Full text of "To The Lighthouse"

THE   LIGHTHOUSE

Cam's foot, over anybody's foot.    One sat and
watched it.

But whose foot was he thinking of, and in what
garden did all this happen? For one had settings
for these scenes; trees that grew there; flowers;
a certain light; a few figures. Everything tended
to set itself in a garden where there was none of
this gloom and none of this throwing of hands
about; people spoke in an ordinary tone of voice.
They went in and out all day long. There was an
old woman gossiping in the kitchen; and the
blinds were sucked in and out by the breeze; all
was blowing, all was growing; and over all those
plates and bowls and tall brandishing red and
yellow flowers a very thin yellow veil would be
drawn, like a vine leaf, at night. Things became
stiller and darker at night. But the leaf-like
veil was so fine that lights lifted it, voices
crinkled it; he could see through it a figure
stooping, hear, coming close, going away, some
dress rustling, some chain tinkling.

It was in this world that the wheel went over the
person's foot. Something, he remembered, stayed
and darkened over him; would not move; some-
thing flourished up in the air, something arid and
sharp descended even there, like a blade, a scimitar,
smiting through the leaves and flowers even of
that happy world and making them shrivel and fall.

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